


The Queen of Bithynia

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Crossdressing, Disturbing Themes, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Miranda.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	The Queen of Bithynia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> Written for MillicentCordelia, for a very belated merry Christmas.  
> This story takes place between "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper", in the time that they're preparing to leave the ships, but have not yet left.  
> I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based upon are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

The time for movement approaches, or perhaps more fittingly, they approach it, and he knows very well that they will have to travel light-   
But this is just a trifle.   
It can be folded up, rolled up, stuffed into the corner of a box. It weighs nothing at all.   
Or, if it weighs, its weight is not physical.   
For, even stowed in his trunk, beneath other things, out of sight, it weighs, James finds, with unfolding curiosity, on him in some other way.   
It had been waiting, it seemed, down in storage, all those weeks. It was the trunk that James was interested in; not its contents. He opened the lid, and there it was, lain atop the other costumes in the trunk, at first not recognizable as itself. It was its color, not its form, that resonated, and before he apprehended, James felt surprise, even shock, as though confronted by someone he’d thought lost or dead. Gently, he picked up the dress by the shoulders, and its full length unfurled. If it could be said to have a manner, it seemed suddenly reproachful. Rueful, as it reminded him of what he wished pointlessly he could take back. It weighed on him when he sneered at it, against the regret that bloomed and spread within. It weighed on him when he looked down into the costume trunk, and thought spitefully of putting the dress back, locking it up and leaving it all behind, hang the trunk. It was in spite of himself, naturally. For who else was there room for, in this piece of theater? Only he. And his costume. All of the terrible feelings resolved themselves into a kind of urgency, and he felt the distinct impression that he would be unable to go on without it; that it had become a hated but necessary part of himself, that as much as he might wish it gone, he could not do without. Like a scar is part of the skin that it mars, cannot be cut out, without doing greater injury to the body that bears it. Even as the dress seemed to become soaked in his own memories, his own regrets, he felt the need to preserve it. In taking it up, clutching it to himself, shoving it under his coat on the way to his rooms, it weighed more than it ever had.   
Now, it presses down on him constantly, and he becomes aware of the press as though becoming suddenly aware of wakefulness. He thinks of it fondly, all of a sudden, as one might be moved to recall a pleasant time in the past, when one is aroused by an evocative scent. He would seem, somehow, to have made his peace with it, perhaps simply by refusing to let it go. As though to reward him, the thought of it opens a strange warmth in him. It is nostalgia, he thinks. And sorrow, he now knows, at what was made of nostalgia, of the carnival. So, it is nostalgia, twice over. The desire for what was, and still is, though so far away that it might as well not exist, and the pain attached to the motion of reaching for what is lost, thoughtlessly, as one might reach for a glass of water when half-awake and parched. Yet, for the pain, it is sweet. It is sweet, because it is his; he knows it, and being part of him, it knows him. He and it exist together, no longer at war, but in melancholy acceptance.  
This must be, he imagines, a kind of love.  
The colors are more faded than he recalled. Though, whether by the sun in its former life or by age, however old it may be, James cannot tell. The pink has become the last gasp of a pressed wildflower, its petals a thin tissue. The green is the green of the leaves of a slowly dying tree. The material betrays its cheapness. Of course, it’s not a real gown. Not made for a lady to wear, many times over, to be stowed in a wardrobe when not in use, taken out by a maid, of sufficiently sturdy stuff to be handled, cleaned when necessary, put on and taken off. It’s a dream. Though, a dream of what, James neither knows nor truly wants to. All that he knows is that the wear to it, particularly in the seams and at the sleeves, makes it softer, and the drift in hue from vibrant to pallid gives it the semblance of a well-worn memory, and for this, for its very cheapness, the sense that, like a memory, it could dissolve, he loves it all the more.  
Gently, he folded it over itself, put it at the bottom of his trunk, and felt the weight settle. Wherever he is, now, he marks his position relative to his rooms, and to his box by his bed, and to the dress, down against the inner edge of the box that touches the wall. He fancies that he can feel it, the way one can feel the stove in a room, more or less, depending upon one’s orientation.  
He resolves to forget about it, to content himself with the sense of having rescued it, but the first time he feels it may be safe, he is upon it. He waits until it’s deep into the night, almost dawn. The danger hems him in at both sides. Too close to evening, and the men will still be active. Too close to morning, and it’s too much like day. There may still be an emergency at midnight. A rap at the door can come at any time, and there will only be so many moments that he can put off a caller. At all times, it is taking a risk. He takes care to bolt the door. He removes only what he wears on top before putting on the dress. It takes a while to put it on, and by the time he’s laced up the back, clumsily from the front, he can hardly breathe for his fear. He rushes to take it off, and puts it away. The next time, he dares a little longer, breathes through the fear as long as he can bear it. He emerges from his adventure untouched, and begins to feel safe. The next time, he lies down on his bed wearing it. He falls into a reverie, dozes. He comes out of it in a panic. It’s still night. He sighs in a breath, steadies himself. The feeling of panic lingers, though he no longer fears. Slowly, it begins to suggest something else. He follows it where it takes him. He lifts the skirt. He undoes his trousers.  
After the first time, whether sooner or later, it always ends this way. Sometimes, he is eager to be finished, his senses immediately opened, irritated, fitful. Sometimes, he waits until it’s almost time to take it off. Grasped by urgency, he succumbs all at once.   
Tonight, he feels, will be one of the latter kind. He draws it out, carefully noting his sensations, magnifying them, willing himself to be overtaken. It is better when he doesn’t have to do very much at all; when it seems, absurd as it is, that the dress is acting upon him. The material lets in the cold. In the dress, he feels the cold more acutely, as though unprotected by even his skin. The chill in the air runs down, into his guts, his bones. He lets himself tremble. The dress is soft against him, fitted enough to hold him in, here and there. There is no allowance for the bust, no seams to follow the lines of a girdled waist. No. It is not a lady’s gown. It wasn’t made for a lady, but for James. Bare on top beneath it, the material might be James’ skin. Perhaps he was flayed before this. Only now does he have the semblance of a person. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter; only that, like this, he is contained, nothing seeping out in ways it shouldn’t. It may only be the cold, but he thrills. He gathers up a fistful of material, presses it between his legs. He’s still wearing his trousers, so it doesn’t touch him there, but the softness of it in his hand is enough to excite him. You’d never mistake it for something made of flesh and blood, but that may be the point. The material is thin, and it’s soft, and even next to James’ body, it retains its coolness. It rubs against him in places, when he breathes in and out. He adjusts the rhythm of his breathing, the better to feel it. He presses his other hand to his left breast, feels his heart beating. Like this, he feels as though the heartbeat could belong to somebody else, or that it could be somebody else touching him.  
You accept loneliness, but nobody goes looking for it.  
Over the past weeks, his breathing has become restrained, as though something gradually but persistently presses in on his chest. His pulse often sounds in his ears, now, even when he’s at rest. He sometimes feels a peculiar weakness in his hands, his knees.  
Whose heartbeat is this? He cannot recognize it as his own.  
There is a sound, as from an intake of breath. Is it his breathing?  
A cough.  
James didn’t cough.  
Slowly, chilled into slowness, all but transfixed, he makes himself drop his hands to his sides and turn around.  
He thought he’d bolted the door.   
He breathes in deeply, conscious of every breath, but, now with the feeling that each might be his last.  
“I called, but you didn’t answer,” Francis says softly.  
James could invent a story. He could do so convincingly. He’s had a story half-constructed in his mind, stored up in case of this very turn of events. Drunkenness. Drunken, bittersweet memories of his youth, games played in youth, Christmas skits and plays, leading to a drunken whim. Drink makes men do strange things, and homesickness, stranger things, still. No one would know this better than Francis. It is for this reason that he can’t lie to Francis. It’s precisely because Francis might believe him, or at least pretend to, accept the lie graciously, out of kindness, in understanding of James’ weakness, that James can’t lie.   
James says: “I didn’t mean for you to see this.” That much is true, is obvious. He closes his eyes, shakes his head slightly. He feels himself color, a sick and variegated flush, down to the root of his throat. Sighing, he opens his eyes, forces himself to look at Francis.  
Francis tilts his head slightly to the side. His expression seems sad, puzzled. James can’t blame him; feels, even, sympathy for him. Francis didn’t ask for this, to know this. It’s a moment before Francis speaks, and in that moment, James resolves to walk off of the ship, and continue walking. It will be as much for Francis’ sake as for his own; to spare Francis. As soon as Francis delivers whatever blow he means to, James will bear it, and then leave. “Now that I have,” Francis says slowly, “would you like to talk about it?”  
“What is there to say?” he laughs.  
“That’s for you to decide.”  
“I’m not-” James begins. There’s no place to take that. He could say that he’s not mad. That’s precisely what a madman would say. That would resolve it all, easily and neatly. If it were madness, then they could go on. Francis would watch him closely, with great care; vigilantly, but not, James allows himself to think, unkindly. For the sake of them all, Francis would try to take onto himself some of the weight that he imagines James carries. To think it brings a kind of ache, making James color all the more with distress and with awareness of himself, but James makes himself go further, to admit that would dearly like to let Francis do this for him. A madman would be permitted weakness, strangeness. He’d be pitied. He might inspire revulsion. You couldn’t hate a madman, though. You couldn’t be ashamed of him, not really. The mad have no shame, and lacking it, their shame cannot adhere itself to others. He would be a chore to Francis, but not an insult.  
“I’ve made no pronouncements,” Francis says gently.  
“What if I were mad?” James asks. Until he hears himself say the words, he doesn’t know that they’re coming. “Could we go on that way?” he asks, because, now, he must know.  
“Is it something like that?”  
James shakes his head. “No.”  
Francis smiles. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that my second isn’t a madman.”  
“Should I take this off?” It is for Francis to say, now, if James is clothed or unclothed. He will stay covered, or he will be bare. He’ll walk uncovered onto the waste. Only let Francis say it.  
“It’s late,” Francis begins, “It’s late, and you’re alone. If it gives you some comfort to wear it, I can’t think what harm it would do to keep it on a while longer.”  
James laughs. “I can’t.”  
“That’s for you to decide. Not for me.”  
It is for Francis to decide. He commands James. He could command James to do anything. Why does he not do his duty? A sort of anger wells in James. It’s not at Francis, who is only trying to be kind, no matter how little kindness is merited. At precisely whom or what it’s directed, James doesn’t know, but it’s there, and it makes him feel the sudden need to hurt something, even if it is himself. “Do you like me like this?”  
Francis looks taken aback, but says evenly, “I don’t have an opinion.”  
“You must,” James says in a voice so hard it shocks him. “You certainly don’t seem disgusted.”  
Francis sighs. “It’s late, and you’re not thinking clearly. You should try to rest.”  
“No.” He has to ruin something. He has to destroy it. Even if it means walking out into nothing when he’s finished. He knows that he’s not well, to spite what he said, he may actually be losing his mind, but he has to do this. He has to be finished with this. The weight is dragging him down. Into God knows what. “What are you thinking?” he demands.  
“If you want to know, I’m concerned that you might be working yourself up into a state.”  
“Hysteria, perhaps,” James says.  
“I wouldn’t go that far. You seem unhappy, though, and I don’t want it to be on my account. We’ve all known enough unhappiness.” He hesitates for a moment, but then places his hand on James’ arm. It’s an innocent, even friendly gesture. It’s kind and it’s sweet, and it hurts James more than he could put into words.  
He has to destroy something.  
He kisses Francis.  
He’s been struck, before. It was a warning blow, barely more than a slap, and James had been drunk, and the other fellow had been drunk, and it had been easy for James to laugh at him, even after being struck, to sneer at how so brave a man could be frightened by a kiss. The man’s anger had broken into shock and then that had dissolved into understanding, into mirth. It had only been a joke. Perhaps a cruel one, but James could, sometimes, be cruel. Perhaps James was at his most amusing when he was cruel. Laughing, they’d hit each other on the shoulder, and gone on drinking, still laughing.  
No one is laughing, now.  
The hand that meets James’ face is gentle. He holds Francis’ hand there, and Francis allows it. He feels Francis’ other hand on his waist, as though to steady him. Francis allows himself to be kissed, and then again, and then a third time, his mouth opening slightly for James, who is now drained of heat or ire or anything else that might animate him. Weakness has stolen into James’ knees, his back and shoulders, and he feels he’s all but helpless, now, in Francis’ arms, and he needs Francis to know this, as well. He leans into the hand on his waist, brings himself closer to Francis.  
“It’s late,” Francis says, his hand still on James’ cheek; the other, fallen to his side. “I think you should try to rest.”  
“Not yet,” James says, resolute.  
No.  
Petulant.  
No.  
Pleading.  
“I can stay with you, if you’d like.”  
James looks down. “I’ll take this off.”  
“You don’t have to.”  
He clears his throat. “There could be- there could be an emergency. Something could happen, out there. Someone could see.”  
“I can step outside while you change.”  
“No. Please stay.” God knows what he means by this. His heart is pounding in his throat.  
“Would you like me to help you?”  
For a moment, he can’t breathe. He makes himself breathe in deeply, then out again. “Yes. Please. It laces. In the back,” he says apologetically, “and at the sleeves.”  
Francis holds out his hands. “We’ll do the sleeves first,” Francis says. James gives his arm to Francis. The left, then the right.   
“However did you get yourself into it?” Francis asks.  
“Very carefully,” James says, venturing a smile.  
Smiling back, Francis hesitates, holds him by his wrist, now uncovered, his thumb at James’ pulse.  
He kisses Francis again.  
Francis’ hands are on his waist. Not to steady him. They fall, to James’ hips, then rise again to his waist, and over James’ breast, to his shoulders. He pulls James closer to him, holds him like this.  
He caresses James’ face. “Turn around,” he says softly.  
The knot is loose, and comes apart easily in Francis’ hands. He unlaces the back slowly, taking care not to damage the material. It makes James feels strange to think of it, Francis handling the dress gently. “Bend down,” Francis says. His hands are on James’ waist as he says it, then slowly move away.  
James turns around, bends at the waist, puts out his arms. Francis plucks at the sleeves until they begin to come forward, and James eases back, through the darkness within the dress, and out. Francis takes up the dress, folds it over his arm, brushes off the skirt. He holds it out to James. James folds it again, puts it in his box.  
“Is that troubling you?” Francis asks, pointing to James’ arm.  
“Yes,” James says. There’s little point in lying, but he makes himself add: “It’s not severe, though. Not yet.” That ‘not yet’ comes unbidden, hangs between them. “I’m all right,” he says, hoping that this is a resolution.  
Francis doesn’t look like he believes it, but he says nothing. He lays his hand against James’ cheek. Finally: “You must tell Dr. Goodsir if it gets any worse.”  
“I will,” he says. He finds his shirt, and puts it back on.  
“Are you tired? Do you want to lie down?”  
As soon as Francis says it, he realizes that he is. It’s not fatigue. It’s bone-crushing weariness. He would sleep for a thousand years, if only sleep would come. At night, he only lies there, feeling his own illness polluting him, searching his body for aches that may help him to map out his doom, over time. How much time he may have, and how long this will continue. “Could we?” He hears the desperation in his voice as he says it.  
“You’ve hardly to ask permission in your own home.”  
Again, comes the need to provoke. “I want you to lie down with me.”  
“I will, James. But you must rest.”  
He gets into bed. He moves aside, making a space for Francis. Francis takes off his boots, gets in next to him. He turns to face James. He smooths back James’ hair. “Are you all right?” Francis asks.  
“I’ll be all right,” James says.  
Francis kisses him. It’s less an overture than a closure, but James still feels his breath catch in his chest. “Rest, James. I’m staying.”  
“Thank you.”  
“No thanks are needed.” Francis pats his shoulder, then turns around. Before he can stop himself, James puts his arm around Francis. He feels Francis’ hand on his.  
James does not sleep. But he does rest.

It must be close to morning when he feels Francis get out of bed. He hears Francis leave, the door close behind him.  
It could scarcely have gone any other way. Now that the night is behind him, James feels foolish, but relieved. The worst of it is over, and whatever comes next, he’ll face it. Within, James feels like the waste, without, all around them. Flat, and cold, and dry, with nothing to break it, as far as the eye can see. That flatness and coldness help him to bear the emptiness. The absence of Francis. The warmth of Francis’ body has faded, but it’s left a kind of imprint on James; it is that absence, that absence that aches like an old wound.  
He dresses.  
It was there, but now, it’s gone.  
The day belongs to others. Not to him. In the day, he belongs to others. Like this, he can go on. Never has it been easier for him to go than when doom, or when nothingness seemed to await him. That is how James has always been. For all of this, he is unchanged.  
Throughout the day, he sees Francis. Francis gives nothing away. It pleases James to see Francis exercise such control, even as it worries at him. He begins to believe that it was a dream. It has taken on the feeling of a dream, divorced from the senses, reaching outward; dwelling entirely within. He feels invisible to Francis. Perhaps it’s meant as a reproach. That, in a way, is attention. If Francis blots him out, Francis still must touch him to do it.  
Yet, late in the day, Francis gives him a look that is out of place. He allows himself to be drawn away from the other men.  
“May I see you tonight?” Francis asks.  
It takes James a moment to register the words. It may be that Francis only wishes to question him privately, to rebuke or punish him. James may yet have something to ruin. He may ruin himself. James answers, “Yes, of course.”  
“It may be quite late.”  
“Whenever you wish.”  
And that is all.  
The hours drag. They drip, like syrup. The time pools up around James. He has no choice but to let it. He is subject to it. He is always subject to time, to the dread or anticipation it arouses. Whether he anticipates or dreads, and for what he feels this, he cannot say. He doesn’t know what to expect, or, even, what he wants to happen. Freed by the passage of time away from day, into night, he allows himself to think of Francis’ mouth on his. Francis’ hands on his waist. Francis lying in his bed next to him. That is what he wants, though, in thinking of it, he fears. Now, he fears ruin. Even as he rushes to embrace it.  
He goes to his rooms. He waits.  
There is a tap at the door. He stills, waiting for another, an indication that it isn’t the ship settling. He draws closer to the door, and hears his name. It’s said so softly that he at first he thinks he only wishes to hear it. He opens the door. Francis. He closes the door behind Francis. He bolts it.  
“Thank you for seeing me,” Francis says.  
“Not at all,” James murmurs. “It was all I could think of,” he says more firmly, though saying it makes him feel unsteady. Punishment may still await him, but for being all the closer, it only makes him bold. If he will be punished, he decides, he will be worthy of punishment.  
“I didn’t want you to feel I was being forward,” Francis says.  
“After all you’ve seen and heard, you could hardly be thought presumptuous.”  
“I wouldn’t take what hadn’t been offered.”  
James laughs. “Take whatever you want.”  
He lays his hand against James’ cheek. “Only what I’m given.”  
After all of that, James doesn’t have a right to be shy. Yet, it’s hesitantly that he kisses Francis. When he thought he was going to destroy something, even with his fear, he felt so sure of himself. What is he doing now, and why is he no longer sure of anything? What does he want?  
As though Francis divines something, he asks softly, “Would you like to change your clothes?”  
He looks at Francis for a long time. “Are you sure?” he asks.  
Francis nods.  
James goes to the trunk. He takes out the dress. He lays it on the bed. He takes off his waistcoat, his jumper. He lowers his braces, and takes off his shirt. All the while, Francis watches him. He searches Francis’ expression for a trace of disdain, or mockery, or lasciviousness, but finds none. Francis looks at James the same way he always does. Suddenly, James feels naked.  
Of course he feels naked, he scolds himself. He is naked.  
He picks up the dress, slips it over his head, his arms into the sleeves. “Will you do up the back?” he asks Francis.  
“Yes.”  
He faces away from Francis, hears Francis approach him from behind. Francis’ hands are low on his waist, then climbing, drawing in the laces. “Tell me if it’s too tight,” Francis says.  
“It’s not.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward slightly. His breathing slows a little, as he concentrates on the regular movements of Francis’ hands, ascending his back. At the top, Francis ties the knot.  
“The sleeves,” Francis says softly.  
He turns. He gives Francis his arm; first the left, then the right. He closes his eyes again. It’s almost like being worked on by a doctor; though there is no pain, only the somnolent easiness that comes from being handled by someone who knows what he must do, knows how to do it. Then, Francis has finished. James opens his eyes. Francis brushes back his hair, caresses his cheek. Francis kisses him. If there was doubt last night, now, there can be no doubt. Francis’ arms are around him, Francis’ hands are in his hair, then slipping down his back, down his waist, to his hips. He holds James against him like this, not roughly, but decisively. No one could mistake this for indulgence or for simple kindness. He presses himself against Francis. Let Francis have no doubt, either.  
Yet.  
“Is it me, or is it this?” He barely apprehends the question before he asks it. Once he has, he regrets it. He winces. “I didn’t mean that.”  
For a moment, Francis doesn’t speak. “It seems to make you happy,” he says, finally.  
“It does,” James says. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, though it is the truth.  
Francis’ hands rise to his waist. “I don’t really understand, but I can’t say that I mind, either. I would like to see you happy.”  
“Does it make you happy?”  
“It’s not the reason I’m here, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
“Why did you come here, last night?”  
Francis shakes his head. “I don’t remember, now.”  
“What did you think when you found me?” He’s beginning to panic, though he doesn’t know why.  
“I was surprised.”  
“Why?” That is an absurd question.  
“I’m not used to seeing you out of uniform.”  
James frowns. There’s something wrong, but he can’t figure out what it is, can’t even form the necessary questions to try to.  
“James,” Francis says.  
It’s like being called forth from sleep, from a dream. He looks at Francis.  
Francis says, “I didn’t come here expecting anything. But if there is something, it’s not unwelcome. Not in the least.”  
If something will be destroyed, let it be the separation between them. “There is something,” James says.   
Then, no more.   
He kisses Francis. There comes warmth that could blot out any cold, within or without. God, let it come. He feels the heat of Francis’ hands through the material of the dress, a shallow pulse of warmth that tantalizes, promises more. His throat is bare. Here, he feels the cold acutely, discordantly, next to the warmth rising up his body, radiantly outward from the places where Francis touches him. Then, Francis’ mouth is on his throat, and the cold fades from him totally. His breath is somewhat labored, but it’s less unsettling, now that there is a cause outside of himself. The material of the dress rubs against his breast as he breathes, Francis’ hands on his back. He leans down, against Francis, lets Francis hold him in, hold him up. Francis’ hands drift down to his waist, his hips. He presses his hand between Francis’ legs, feels how Francis breathes out, opening his mouth slightly. Breathing into James. He lets Francis maneuver them to James’ bed, where they drop down together, onto the edge, between the banks of bed rail. Francis’ hand is over James’ heart, caressing the material as though it were skin. It may as well be, for how James feels it. He lets himself breathe out audibly, lets himself sigh. Then, Francis is moving him back gently, slowly shifting his weight onto James, atop him. There is no cold, now. No waste. No barren ground. Francis presses his knee between James legs, pinning James like that, with the material of the dress’ skirt between Francis and the bed. If he moves, it will be because Francis bids it. He won’t move until Francis wishes him to. He thinks of his nights alone, when he spent the entire night working toward his conclusion; memory mixing with present action like the cold of the room with heat of Francis’ body. The dress slips down slightly, dragged by Francis’ weight, the press of his knee, exposing James’ breast. Now, his arms are held, by the dress, though he is sufficiently free to arch up slightly, into Francis’ kiss, Francis’ hands on his bare skin. Francis’ mouth moves down James’ throat, dragging a long, ragged sound with it, up from some place deep in James that he can hardly name. Francis’ mouth is on his breast; down, beneath, on the wound, once white as alabaster, dry as sand, now, again, pulsing stickily to life, as though James had been struck in reverse. As though the injury had always been inside of James, and were now forcing its way out. He hears himself make another sound, this forced from him, as well, by the feeling that rises through him, rough and ardent, like a kind of pain.  
“Did I hurt you?” Francis asks.  
Not pain.  
James shakes his head. “No.” He swallows. “No. Please, don’t stop. Please,” he makes himself add, for the pain this brings, an ache that begs not for relief but for more of itself.  
Francis kisses his mouth again, easing off of the dress, James’ arms now released sufficiently to come up around Francis. Francis’ hands are at the front of James’ trousers. He takes his arms from around Francis, and Francis moves lower, mouth back to James’ throat, his breast, and then lower, still, pulling up the dress over James’ belly. Francis moves aside, and James lifts up his hips, so that Francis may expose him.  
“Does the,” Francis begins, hesitates, clears his throat, “The dress. Do you like the feel of it? On you?” He’s flushed, down to his throat.  
As though his blood would answer Francis’, he feels himself color. “Yes. Like this.” He wraps himself in the material. He shows Francis how he does it, looking up to see Francis watching him with the same soft expression he’s always had, before replacing James’ hand with his own.  
“Like this?” Francis asks, moving his hand slowly, carefully. Some nights, James would make even the end last as long as he could stand it. If he kept himself in suspense long enough, perhaps the night would never end, never pass into day. Nothing would work on him, save himself. He would remain unchanged.  
“Yes,” James says, shifts so that he can kiss Francis as Francis touches him. The material falls away somewhat, and he feels more of Francis’ hand, so that he’s half clothed in it and half clothed in Francis. His eyes slip shut, but he knows that Francis is still watching him, Francis’ gaze, though gentle, like something wounding; making James tender, opening him. James lets himself be moved by that wound, that ache, moving his hips with Francis’ hand. Not so slowly, now.  
“You’ll ruin it,” Francis says softly.  
It takes James a moment to understand. He opens his eyes. He makes himself meet Francis’ gaze. “I don’t care.” He pushes up firmly, into Francis’ hand, into the material, continues to do so, unto perdition.  
Let it be ruined.  
After a moment, Francis rearranges James, spreads out the stained part of the dress; the patch of wetness, an irregular rounded shape, like a rudimentary mapping of a newly-discovered land.  
For being ruined, James loves it all the more.  
He looks up at Francis, still atop him, looking down at him, Francis’ hand on his face. He places his hand on Francis’ hip. “What about you?” James asks.  
“We can worry about that later.”  
James frowns. “Are you sure?”  
Francis smiles a little. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient.”  
“I have nothing but time,” James says, for the chill it provokes. “Will you stay?”  
Francis caresses his cheek. “Yes.”  
“Perhaps when we wake.”  
“Yes. Perhaps, then. Would you like to change?”  
“No. Not yet. Do you mind?”  
“No, James.” He pulls the dress up James’ shoulders. “Just mind you don’t catch a chill.” James lets himself be covered. Again, it’s something like being attended to by a doctor. To be in Francis’ care. He kisses Francis, hoping for more, more of Francis’ hands on him, and he receives. He’s caressed, brought in close to Francis and held against him. Francis keeps James like this, gently hemmed in against his body. Now that it truly is another’s breathing, another’s heartbeat, the alien sensation is welcome. James almost recognizes himself again. Not unchanged. Nor ruined.  
Francis’ breathing.  
Francis’ heartbeat.  
There is the weight. The weight of Francis against him. The weight of the dress. His own weight, the weight of his body, where it has been, and where it will go. The three of them.


End file.
